Just My Type

by Falon Ballard

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

To win the job of her dreams, a relationship-prone journalist needs to learn how to stay single in this heartwarming and hilarious new romantic comedy from the beloved author of Lease on Love.

Lana Parker is an expert girlfriend. After a disastrous breakup with her high school boyfriend, she's bounced from long-term relationship to long-term relationhip and even works as the dating and relationships columnist for one of Los Angeles's trendiest websites. But when Lana suddenly finds herself single, she's ready to take a break, both personally and professionally. 

That is, until her high school ex, Seth Carson, takes an assignment at Lana's site. Having spent years traveling the world as a freelance journalist, Seth's finally ready to put down roots. Seth and Lana's chemistry is just as combative—and undeniable—as ever and quickly leads to a competition that could shape both of their careers. Pitted against each other by Lana's boss, they are each tasked with writing an article series that goes against their usual dating type: Lana needs to write about being single and staying single, while Seth must learn to settle down and become boyfriend material. Whoever's series is most popular wins a highly coveted dream job. But when the two square off, it's not only their careers on the line—it’s also their hearts.

Release date: February 7, 2023

Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons

Print pages: 368

Sample

Chapter 1

They invite you to a place that has special meaning to the two of you.
-Lana Parker, "Ten Signs Your Partner Might Be About to Propose"
 
I'm having an Elle Woods moment.

And not a "wearing a pink power suit, getting into Harvard Law, smashing the patriarchy" Elle Woods moment.

More like a "hysterically crying in a public place because instead of being proposed to I'm getting dumped" Elle Woods moment.

The good news is I haven't actually started to cry yet. Which is a relief because my mouth is hanging open in complete and utter shock, and adding heaving sobs to the mix would make for a huge, snotty mess. A literal one, not just the figurative one my life has become.

"I'm sorry, what did you just say to me?"

"I said, I think we should break up."

I stare at the stupid, stupid man sitting across from me. I want nothing less than not to see Evan's stupid, stupid face for even one second longer, but I can't seem to look away, my face frozen in a mixture of horror and WTF-ery. I force my eyes shut, hoping against hope that when I reopen them, all of this will have been some kind of sick joke.

But it's not.
 
When I open my eyes-eyes Evan once told me weren't just brown but brown with flecks of gold-he's still there. Still watching me with a gaze full of pity.

I wish I could channel a Real Housewife and throw my dirty martini in his face, but that would require a level of motor function I don't seem to have. Also, something tells me I'm going to need the liquid courage to survive the rest of this night.

Finally, after several minutes of painful silence, Evan reaches over and pats my hand. Like I'm some grandma he helped across the street and not the woman he's been dating the last four years.
 
"I know this isn't what you were expecting, Lana Banana." His stupid, stupid mouth curls up in a condescending hint of a smile.

I always hated that nickname. Lana doesn't even rhyme with banana.

Stupid. Stupid.

I'm so fucking stupid.

I yank my hand out from under his, the mere touch of his skin on mine enough to give me the icks. "I thought you brought me here to propose." I mean for it to come out accusatory, but instead my voice hitches with a tinge of whine.

A proposal is a reasonable assumption when the man you've been in a committed relationship with for four years plans dinner at the restaurant where you had your first date. Assuming the man isn't a stupid, stupid asshole.

Evan's face scrunches up like the very thought of marrying me is painful. "Oh." He nods slowly, in a way he probably thinks is wise and sage and Gandalf-esque. "I can see now how you might've misinterpreted this."

"How I might have misinterpreted this?" My voice screeches and several patrons at surrounding tables subtly-and not so subtly-turn our way. I reach for my martini and for a second really consider how good it would feel to watch the olive-green-tinted liquid drip down his self-tanned face.

But then I wouldn't get to drink it. I chug the remainder of the cocktail before holding my empty glass in the air.

A server rushes over and removes the glass from my hand, as if he's been waiting for me to chuck it at someone.

"Hi, yes, more of these please." When the server gives me a wary look, I point across the table. "This motherfucker thought it was appropriate to bring me-his girlfriend of four years-to our first-date spot to break up with me."

He winces sympathetically. "I'll just keep them coming then?"

I salute him with my invisible glass. "Good man."

The keeper of the martinis, a.k.a. my new best friend, scampers off.

Leaving us with a silence that now doesn't feel painful as much as it does heavy. The longer we sit and stare at each other, the more my ire flattens into defeat.

"Can I ask why?" I try to remove any anger from the question so he knows that I mean it, that I really want to know. Even though I'm not totally sure myself.

He sighs and picks up my hand again, but this time the gesture is one of comfort, as if there's a chance we might actually walk away from this still friends. "Lana, you don't want to be with me any more than I want to be with you. You know the two of us aren't actually right for each other."

"Then why have we been together for so long, Evan?" I might as well be asking myself that question since I know he's right; the two of us don't belong together. We shouldn't be dating, let alone thinking about getting married.

His grip on my hand tightens. "Do you want the real, honest answer?"

I purse my lips, nodding, even though only half of me-the sadistic half-wants the truth.

"Every girl I dated before you hated my mother, and I liked how you two clicked. I get that she and I have a relationship that might be closer than most, but I never thought it'd be an issue in my dating life. But all my old girlfriends complained about her and how much time she and I spent together, and how much I shared with her." A hint of an apology darkens his eyes, also brown, though with zero flecks of gold.

"Until me."

"You know, sometimes I think you like her better than me," he grumbles under his breath.

I don't refute his comment, which he takes for the confirmation it is. Judy is one kick-ass woman-was I not supposed to hang out with her when she asked?

"It was a nice change for a while, but then I realized I don't think I want to be married to someone who's got Olympic-level mommy issues." He crosses his arms over his chest and an actual pout forms on his thin lips. How quickly we've moved from a semi-rational conversation to throwing barbs.

"Oh, is that the newest Olympic event? Damn, I can't believe I missed the trials." I slip back into sarcasm like it's my favorite old Princess Leia T-shirt, comforting and safe.

"Lana-"
 
"Look, Evan"-two can play the condescending game, and I drip it into my voice like I'm pouring salted caramel on a sundae-"I really have nothing left to say to you other than you better drop some serious cash on this table before you leave. I'm going to be drinking on your tab for the rest of the night." I happily accept a fresh martini from our server-already thankful I like them light on the vodka and heavy on the olive juice-who glares at Evan before retreating to the bar, where a small crowd of employees are pretending not to watch the reality TV drama unfolding right before their eyes.

This is LA though, so chances are pretty good they've seen actual reality TV play out in front of them. In fact, I'm sure the cast of Vanderpump Rules has filmed here more than once, so they've most definitely seen top-tier cocktail tossing.

I take a long sip of my fresh drink as Evan clearly doesn't get the hint. "I'm sorry, why are you still here?"

"I'm not just going to leave you alone when you're well on your way to being drunk. I may not love you, but I'm not that much of a dick."

I channel my inner Thor, tilting my head to the side and scrunching up my face. "Aren't you though?" Another quarter of my drink goes down, chilling my throat and numbing my feelings. I know that once those feelings return, my inevitable sobs will make Elle Woods's look downright peaceful. Therefore, numb they must stay. "Also, I won't be alone for long. May is already on her way."

He sits back in his seat, frowning. "Seriously? Do you guys have some kind of Bat-Signal?"

"Yeah, it's called a cell phone, dipshit. I texted her while you were in the middle of your it's-not-you-it's-me speech." I stab an olive, imagining staking the toothpick right through his eyeball. I can't believe that for half a second I thought we might be able to get through this breakup like mature adults. Now I'm taking solace in the image of a plastic cocktail skewer burying itself in his pupil. Anger, keep the anger flowing. It's far better than sadness. "For the record, I'd like to make it clear that you are one hundred percent right about that. It is most definitely you."

His pout transforms into a scowl. "Why am I not surprised? You can't even make it through one breakup conversation without needing someone to lean on."

I cross my arms over my chest. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"You're incapable of being alone, Lana. And frankly, it's exhausting."

"Your face is exhausting." Ouch. That not-quite-a-comeback slips out before I can stop it.
 
"Are you sure you want me to leave? I wouldn't want you to be by yourself for five whole minutes." At least the maturity level has dropped across the board.

"I've literally never been more sure of anything in my life." I swig the rest of my martini, and before I even set down the empty glass, another full one is sitting in its spot. Someone is getting a very large tip tonight. "And if I were you, I'd blow this joint before May arrives." Unlike myself, my best friend would never hesitate to throw a drink, and there's a fifty-fifty chance she might also throw a punch.

The skin beneath his spray tan pales. He reaches into his wallet and throws three hundreds down on the table. He pushes his chair back and stands, lingering for just a second too long. The quips and the insults fade away, leaving space for memories of the good times we managed to have over the last four years. "I really am sorry, Lana."

Yeah, well, me too.

I expected to be leaving this restaurant engaged, our arms wrapped around each other, both of us happily buzzed on the complimentary champagne that would've accompanied my giant rock of a ring.

A ring that probably wouldn't have looked anything like the hundreds I have pinned to my public wedding board, which I've conveniently left open on my laptop any time Evan has been at my house over the course of the last
year.

But I would've grown to love it.

Just as we would've grown to hate each other.

"Bye, Evan," I say, only to find he's already left and I'm talking to my martini glass.

My empty martini glass.

But never fear, a new one filled to the brim floats in front of my face. I turn to thank the server, only to find the glass is being proffered by my best friend, May. The server is right behind her, a plate of fried pickles in one hand and a giant piece of cheesecake in the other.

He drops the goods on the table while May slides into Evan's now empty seat. She flashes the server one of her knockout smiles and he's only momentarily stunned, scurrying away a second later.

"Is it too soon to say how much I will not miss that guy?" May dips a pickle in ranch and hands it to me.

Mmm. Pickles and a dirty martini. I can practically feel my blood pressure rising due to the salt intake, but that doesn't stop me from shoveling one after another in my mouth. Plus, the breading will help soak up the alcohol already sloshing around in my stomach, so really, I'm making the healthy, sensible choice.

"You've never exactly been shy about your feelings when it comes to Evan. No need to start now." To be fair, I've never exactly been shy about my feelings when it comes to Evan either. Perfect partner the man is not-was not.

She softens her voice, reaching over and squeezing my hand. "Want to talk about it?"

I gulp down half of my drink. "I thought he was going to propose and instead he dumped me, I think that's about all there is to say."

"He's lucky he left before I got here." May inches a glass of water in my direction, but I ignore it.

"That wasn't a coincidence." I give her a look dripping in drunken, sappy love. "You're terrifying when you go all mama bear."

May flashes me a gentle smile, and that's when my eyes fill with tears. Tears that only seconds later rush down my cheeks like that really big waterfall in Yosemite, though not nearly as picturesque, I'm sure. It doesn't even take a breath before I'm enveloped in a hug, May's spicy citrus scent wrapping around me like my old security blanket.

I'd never try to claim the thick black tracks of mascara streaming down my face are due to genuine sadness at the loss of my relationship. I'm not bereft at the thought of no longer being with Evan. Even now, less than an hour after listening to him tell me it's over, I know deep down we were never right for each other in the first place. I know in a day or two, relief will wash over me like a cleansing ocean wave sweeping across the shore.

And that's all well and good and positive-vibes and look-on-the-bright-side kind of shit.

But for tonight, I just got dumped. I just got dumped in public when I was mostly expecting a proposal. I just got dumped by a man I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with. It's embarrassing, to say the least.

And the truly terrible part is it's not the first time this has happened to me. Or the second. Or even the third.

Stupid, stupid asshole-face Evan is the fourth man I thought was "the one." The fourth man whose parents took me in as one of their own. And the fourth man to very clearly not want to make me a permanent member of the family.

I pull away from May and dab at my eyes with my napkin. "I'm an idiot," I say, my voice so quiet she has to lean in to hear me.

"We're not going to do that tonight." May moves the pickles out of the way, making room for the slice of cheesecake, which is the size of my head. "We can talk about your terrible relationship decisions tomorrow, LP."

"Gee, thanks."

She shrugs, helping herself to a bite of cheesecake. "You know I'm right. But as I said, we're not going to talk about that tonight. Tonight, we will eat and drink until we feel like puking, and then go crawl into that big-ass bed of yours and watch whatever chick flicks your little romance-loving heart desires." May's voice takes on a serious tone, one that's rare for her. "I'm sorry that little shithead broke your heart, my friend, but I can say with one hundred percent certainty that you are better off without him."

"I’m not saying you’re wrong—"

"I’m never wrong."


I roll my eyes, but pair it with a tiny smile. "I’m not saying you’re wrong. About Evan. But I need some time to process all of this before I can just learn a lesson and move on, knowing he taught me something or whatever."

May snorts into her wine.

"I know it’s cliché, but you know what I mean, May." I chug half a glass of water before reaching for my martini glass in a silent request for another cocktail. Then I think better of it and go back to the water.

"The snort was about you taking time to process." She taps her watch-less wrist. "You’ll be in a new, long-term, fully committed relationship within twenty-one days."

"That is both precise and insulting."

She grins, showing off a smile of straight white teeth framed by perfectly lined red lips. "You’re incapable of being single, LP."

"Am not," I bite back, though I do appear to be incapable of being mature this evening. Which may or may not have something to do with the fact that May is basically echoing Evan’s words. And the only thing worse than hearing your faults listed by your ex in the middle of a breakup is having them confirmed by your very best friend.

"Are to. But, again, we don’t have to talk about that tonight." She holds her glass up to the center of the table. "To my darling bestie, you’re the sister I never wanted and the partner I never knew I needed. Any man who can’t hold on to you is a complete fucking moron and we hate him."

"That was beautiful." I clink my glass to hers before taking a long swallow. "Now let’s get smashed."

***

Two or three or four—who has the ability to keep count at this point?—hours later, May and I stumble out of our Lyft and up the stone walkway to the front door of my house.

I love my house. Were I in a sober state of mind, I’d probably spend a minute appreciating its beauty and acknowledging the generational wealth and impeccable timing that afforded me the opportunity to buy this prime piece of Los Angeles real estate. Located in the super trendy neighborhood of Atwater Village (though it was more up and coming and less hipster haven when I bought this place), the small Spanish style abode has everything I need. Two bedrooms, one fully remodeled bathroom, air-conditioning, a parking space, a small backyard, and it’s walking distance to multiple coffee shops and bars. Yes, I know how lucky I am.

But tonight I don’t care about any of that. I care that I’m able to get my key in the front door and get it unlocked without either of us puking in my lovingly tended front garden.

Together we stumble down the hallway to my bedroom, and I think we manage to discard our shoes and purses before we collapse on my bed, which is a major win at this point.